


the scents of rain

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Boys In Love, Brotherhood-era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Flowers, Grief/Mourning, Horny Teenagers, Introspection, M/M, Making Out, Pre-Canon, Rain, Scars, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Noctis really, really needs to lighten up (the rain really gets him down).Fortunately, Prompto has keys to his apartment.





	the scents of rain

**Author's Note:**

> Please assume the boys are at least 18 in this story.

Weight of his book bag that slides slow off his shoulder, somehow growing heavier the farther down it goes, and the thud it makes when it finally hits the concrete beneath his feet is too loud, too close, too startling, and he curses the way the rain makes his heart jumpy: because the rain is a falling curtain of sound, is a mist that hides the world from his eyes. 

Scent of the rain, too, like it’s washing away the dust and the smoke and the heat, and all those things come together to smell like heaviness, like that feeling in his chest of tightening that isn’t the good kind of anticipation. 

The smell of pounded-down leaves, the smell of bruised flowers of the hydrangea in a garden, north of the building where his rooms occupy a corner suite: not the colorful petals in vivid purple and blue, that would have stained his sleeves if he had brushed past them. It’s the smaller flowers that he’s thinking of, the true little white stars in the center of the bright clouds of greens and of colors, that wilt and fall away under the assault of too much rain.

It’s not something he would have noticed, these days, but he has a too-close too-clear memory of Regis propping a cutting of a pale-green stem and a pair of cut-down leaves into freshly-turned earth. A plot, long and narrow, over which Regis had spent far too much time, over the next few months of silence and of Noctis himself, waking up in tears in the middle of the night, calling out with garbled words and missing teeth for a presence and a shadow that he’d never even really known. 

His other memory of Regis in those sleepless nights is of him wrapping the cutting in a shroud of ivory-colored cloth, soon after he’d placed it and he’d never even washed the dirt and the soil from under his fingernails -- and the cutting had grown with such startling speed that it had started to flower in the same year, no more than hip-high to Noctis himself, but seeming to hurry into bright cloud-puffs of petals and color just the same.

He now knows why his father had planted a single hydrangea bush over the empty coffin, over a makeshift grave -- why there had never even been any half-hearted plans for any kind of headstone, save the flowers that bloomed nearly all throughout that first year, and every one thereafter. 

(There is a safe story, a story that appears in the commercially printed history books, of his mother wasting away in sickness and an overly romanticized grief, worn down at last into an entirely soundless death, surrounded by exotic flowers when she closed her eyes for the last time. Tributes sent to her, when her time of lingering had finally come to an end.

(Only a story: but the Glaives have always known the truth, and he’s gotten several versions of the truth from the survivors who’d actually lived it, and they all agree on a handful of specific details.

(His mother had been a fierce fighter, and her twin swords had saved Regis’s life, right from their very first meeting and then -- over and over and over again. All the way to the end of her, fallen in the middle of a battle with Niflheimr soldiers. Not MTs. They hadn’t existed yet, then. Just men and women and others who had raised their arms in order to conquer Lucis, mad with rage and their officers howling to lead the fatal charge.

(And the Glaives who had fought to cover Regis’s retreat had found her instead, standing where she should have fallen, and the dozen swords that should have nailed her down into the bleeding churned soil had fallen instead with their points first -- and the shafts had turned into some kind of lattice, some kind of steel framework, that had propped her body almost upright. 

(Dead, Aulea, dead, but for the black tears leaking from her eyes. The beginnings of the Scourge.

(The Glaives had joined their hands and called on Regis’s magic, and they had carefully, respectfully reduced her body and the steel that had taken her life into ashes, mixing the remains of her with the trophies she’d made of her enemies’ weapons.

(He’d asked every single one of those survivors that he could find to tell him the truth of that day, and ever since then, he’s dreamed of his mother’s peaceful face.

(He’s dreamed of her, since, sitting on a higher throne than the one in the Citadel: and he can’t look into her eyes because she’s wearing a crown made of fire: it throws off white-hot light, and he’s always blinded by it, by her.)

The hydrangea over her grave should be in full flower now, he thinks, as the bush in the garden is: and he wonders about the colors of those flowers, growing in a sheltered corner of the Citadel: blue, or purple, or green.

Last year he’d found traces of red in the edges of the hydrangea’s final unfurling display of flowers.

Even if he’d been in his bedroom in the Citadel, this rain would still fall far too thickly for him to see his mother’s grave, and the flowers blooming over it -- and that’s why he’s here, in this apartment, far away from those painful memories and those painful sights.

He needs to turn away, needs to -- rest.

Except that he can’t even do that, or make himself do that, because the rain has frozen him here, with the cold that eats into his tired muscles, his frayed nerves. Exams and essays and group presentations on one side, the sheltered sharp teasing and whirling social dance of teenagers, of high school; and the papers and the reports and the affairs of an entire kingdom on the other, the fear that bites at him about his father, about the refugees pouring towards Insomnia, about the borders of Lucis pulling in towards this one single city and leaving all of its towns and outposts and wandering families to the tender mercies of Niflheim.

The very same Niflheim that had killed his mother.

It’s too much, he thinks. It’s too much for one man to carry, for one ailing king, and it would have been too much for one hundred and twelve Lucis Caelums to carry, on their shoulders, together.

How could Regis be expected to carry the weight and the cold, alone?

How could Noctis?

And Noctis slumps against the window-glass, in the here and now, and hot tears prickle in the corners of his eyes and he’d stop them from growing cold and falling like rain, if he could, if he could take the burden from his father’s shoulders, if he could have his mother here, if he could be less alone -- 

Scritch-scratch of a key -- an actual key -- in the door: and the point of that door, the point of this apartment, is that no one is supposed to know that there’s a door, or that there’s an apartment, at all. The point is that no one is supposed to know that there are keys to that door and keys to that apartment: Noctis knows every single person who has copies of the keys, knows every single person who knows this address.

So: “Go away Specs,” he mutters, half-heartedly, wondering if the rain will render the words useless.

Thump, thump, and then the quiet shush of almost bare feet moving in his direction.

That’s not Ignis, that’s not possible, and Noctis turns blindly, hoping against hope, and there are slender arms around him, catching at him, holding him safe and anchored in the here and now.

Fingertips brushing at his eyes so he can see: droplets of water caught in pale-golden hair, on eyelashes, in the corners of startlingly pretty eyes. Smile, most of it, crooked in the corners because the only other person on this Eos that he’d trust with the truth of his mother’s death is the same person who’s holding him now. Freckles, little shadows, densely scattered across cheeks and forehead, trailing sparser lines down the throat, pooling again in the collar-bones.

“I know you’re thinking about her.”

“I kind of can’t forget it,” he whispers, and it hurts to swallow. “I can’t forget it so I can’t sleep. But if I do forget it, if I do forget her -- what kind of son would I be to her then?”

“Then do something else. It’s okay. I’m the only one here. If you want to let it out. If you want to do something about it. I’ll be here. I’ll be with you.”

He shakes his head, but not to say no, not precisely. “I’m tired of having to let it out like this,” he says. “I just want to feel it and let it go in the same moment. I can’t bottle this up because it hurts me, when there’s too much, and it hurts you too.”

“I said I could take it. I still can.”

He leans in for a kiss that’s almost fierce, that’s almost as greedy as a sword plunged into dark red blood, the blade drinking deeply, and -- he feels it when Prompto stops yielding, when Prompto starts giving it back, and he honestly doesn’t know where the relief lies; he can only let the relief wash the grief and the rage away. Prompto, falling back before him; or Prompto, turning the kiss back around on him. 

Which is why Noctis lets himself hang, grateful to be suspended, where Prompto’s bent him backwards into most of a dip, like they’re just dancing here, instead of kissing with their souls bared on their skin.

“You’re shaking,” he hears Prompto say afterwards.

“So are you,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” and he’s still unsteady even when Prompto pulls him back into a mostly standing position, when Prompto leads him back to the creased wilderness of cold sheets and cold quilts and cold pillows. His bed, rain-chilled, wind-lashed.

He has to settle underneath the piled-on bedding before he can even think about getting undressed: and that means his own warmth, radiating out from his own skin, gradually builds up around him, and then Prompto’s squeezing into the spaces he can’t spread out to and it’s better. Slowly, slowly, it’s better. The two of them here, wandering hands, helpful hands, and Noctis lets Prompto pull his tie away. Lets him unclip the collar of his shirt, the stiff sleeves and cuffs. 

In turn, he throws Prompto’s school-jacket completely off the bed. The weights in the pockets of his trousers, all the pleats gone useless and shapeless and pointless: keys and coins and his phone, and the eyeglasses -- banged-up cheap frames. 

Those last two items, at least, he remembers to save, and deposit onto the bedside table -- just barely, before he dives back into the warmth they’ve barely managed to shore up and hold on to, and he mutters hastily into Prompto’s shoulder, like garbled requests.

Which is how he ends up pressed against the entire breadth and length of Prompto’s back. The two of them on their sides, safe in the drift of his pillows. His mouth tracing wandering looping paths over freckles scattered along nape and shoulders, the back of an ear, the angled line that leads down to the chin. 

Everywhere he kisses is warm: and Prompto is still actively pushing backwards into him, and he welcomes that, the entire idea of falling into the warmth that Prompto seems to be pouring into him.

If he could lose himself in that warmth, if he could lose himself in Prompto -- if only -- 

And even when he’s got his back turned to Noctis, his hand is still wandering, too, tap-tapping over the outside of Noctis’s hip, and down his leg. Feeling him out, as if Prompto were blind and this were the only way he could actually know the shape of Noctis in the world. 

Fingers catching at his wrist and Noctis shivers, because he feels his own pulse speed up at the touch and if he feels it, then Prompto should, too.

“Come on,” he hears Prompto whisper, shaky words. “I meant every word, you know. I still do. What do you need?”

“I don’t have the words for it,” he says, helplessly, mouthing along the edges of Prompto’s hair. He keeps going back to that spot behind his ear like he can’t help himself, like there are lines tied between the two of them and he doesn’t to cut through them, doesn’t want to set himself or Prompto free. “I don’t know how to ask for it, but I want it.”

“And I want you to have it. I think you need to have it. Just don’t know what to call it. Shit, why don’t we ever have the words?”

He nearly mourns the loss when Prompto pulls away, just enough room beneath the weight of the quilts to turn around -- then there’s a freckled hand on him, pushing him gently, and he’s on his back, he’s looking up into storm-beautiful eyes.

The world goes quiet: the rush of the rain finally recedes, and what a relief that is.

What a relief Prompto is: and he tries to find the right words to say that out loud. “I feel a little better when you’re here. I feel a little better when you’re here with me like this.”

The breaths washing over him are warm, and loud, and all the sound he needs to hear, over the way his heart suddenly races.

“What is it,” he whispers, into Prompto’s eyes widening. Toward Prompto’s mouth dropping open.

“You mean it?”

Just in time he remembers that he can’t be offended by that question; just in time he remembers how Prompto, too, needs reassurance and needs soft gentle words too. 

So he tries to find them and tries to -- share them. “Don’t I?”

His reward is the renewed lovely flush in Prompto’s cheeks, deeper and deeper pink. The blooming brilliant light in Prompto’s eyes. “Noct.”

“Yeah. It’s me, Prom. I mean it, and I mean it every time I say it. Sometimes I forget to say.”

Shake of that head: for some reason that makes him think of the smell of hydrangea flowers, but not in a way to hurt -- Prompto would never, he thinks. He believes. 

The scent of spring-sap running within shivering branches; water on leaves that lingers in fine droplets, in the instant before the sun lifts clear of the early-morning mist. 

It’s so easy to lose himself in Prompto like this: so he startles, at the brush of a fingertip across his eyebrow, just tracing the line of it, and he doesn’t feel like he needs to change his expression at all. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know why you make me feel the way you do. Why I feel like it’s okay, if you keep looking at me like you’re doing right now. But, but maybe you already know,” and there’s a soft laugh falling towards him. “Because looking at you right now, I know how you look because I’ve seen myself look like that before. I look at you like that, don’t I?”

He swallows. Smiles again. “I don’t mind, if it’s you looking.”

“I know. You said. Which is why I keep wanting to ask.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard those questions -- not the first time he’s thought of them, thought about answering them, questions like hydrangeas because Prompto’s words catch at his attention, make him think only about the here and now -- but there are deeper meanings behind the words. There are other questions hidden in Prompto’s words.

Questions that aren’t just the words on the surface, or the words that he actually heard: questions that he needs to examine more closely.

Questions like hydrangeas. 

And those flowers often make him sad, even as he aches, because they are beautiful in and of themselves. Because they are beautiful, where they bloom over his mother’s grave, wrapped in a robe of falling rain. 

But he doesn’t ache, not now. Now, he can only smile, at the thought of hydrangea flowers. What would Prompto look like, holding a bunch of them? How would the colors stand out against him, and how would he stand out against the colors of them?

And Prompto is peering closely at him, blinking and sounding a little bit confused: “Noct?”

“You’re brilliant,” he says, truthfully. 

Blink, entirely confused, he thinks. “Sometimes?”

“Later,” he says. “I’ll try to explain later. Right now: can we get back to, to kissing?”

Spark, smile, lighting up Prompto’s eyes, and Noctis can’t help but pull him down, closer, and he feels lighter for the motion. Maybe not entirely freed from the melancholy but now he’s had the time to set his grief aside, and he can focus on the boy he’s kissing. Just on him and the way he fits into his arms. 

The rain melts away from him. The memories recede. 

Just to be in the here and now with Prompto, and Noctis trails his hands over him. Appreciates the lines of him. Slender shoulders, lean lanky lines because he likes to run -- because Noctis has seen him want to run, despite storms, despite winter-drifting snow, despite Noctis’s own best efforts to keep him in bed so they can cling to each other.

Prompto’s clinging to him now, and touching him back. Hands down Noctis’s sides and -- he really is so stupidly wordlessly grateful, because the huge scar on his back reaches around to encroach on the rest of him, huge ropy swaths of nerveless skin up and down his flanks, and Prompto never flinches, never seems to be afraid of the change underneath his hands, never seems to care that he’s actually touching parts of Noctis that probably shouldn’t be able to feel his touch.

And yet he keeps touching: now he’s got Noctis by the hips and he’s muttering, softly, lips working in erratic whispering kisses against Noctis’s throat.

Blood-rush, blood-roar, in Noctis’s ears. They haven’t quite shed all of their layers yet -- he’s torn between just the small strangeness of this, of having Prompto without actually getting naked -- and the craving that thunders down his nerves and is so welcome, so much more welcome than the cold and the rain, to get Prompto all the way down to his bare skin, the flush that seems to darken further, spread farther, the more they kiss.

He’s still trying to consider it, with the last bits of reasoning thought still left to him, as he holds Prompto still by the back of his head -- fingertips stroking gentle circles into his scalp, and his mouth working a fierce bruise just below the line of a collar-bone. Never enough that Prompto will need to cover the mark up with makeup -- but Noctis scrapes his teeth delicately over the heated skin and laughs, low and dark, when Prompto whines and tries to press closer. 

“Please Noct.”

More than enough reason to roll them over -- Noctis sucks harder, presses his teeth in a little bit more, and the full-body shudder that tears through Prompto is his reward, or the first of his rewards.

Hands going into his hair, clinging, pulling, and it’s Noctis’s turn to catch his breath as the pleasure flares up behind his closed eyes, like there’s a direct connection between Prompto’s fingers and his brain, and that connection fills him up with white-hot heat and need.

“Off,” he snarls, teeth catching in the edge of the sleeveless shirt that Prompto’s still wearing. “Everything off.”

But he’s also entirely reluctant to let Prompto up to do that at all.

He can’t really take it amiss when Prompto actually shoves him away, because then he’s treated to freckles and bare skin emerging from pilled cotton and ragged seams, and he strips his own last layers off, too: and makes the mistake of looking over, eyes sweeping, appreciative.

Prompto’s a distraction, is all he can think: the best kind of distraction, beautiful and he doesn’t even know it. The flush that Noctis had been expecting, the freckles on his thighs nearly completely vanishing; the heave of his breath that shows off the definition of his chest, of his belly. 

The breath that turns into a laugh and his eyes snap back to -- Prompto’s blush.

Which he reaches out to and then -- Prompto’s bowling him over, kissing him, frantic and needy and now Noctis is even more distracted, because they’re skin to skin, entangled, and he rolls his hips upwards, and once he gets started he can’t stop himself.

“Fuck, fuck,” and Prompto tears away from him, from the kisses. Hoarse already, like he’s been shouting, like he’s been needing.

So Noctis obliges him -- works a hand between their bodies -- he mutters a word he probably shouldn’t know, because Prompto’s length is hard and hot between them and he swears he might actually be able to feel the pulse of Prompto’s heart, the hammering of him. 

He dips his other hand toward the sweet curve of the small of Prompto’s back -- and lower. The swell of Prompto’s ass, the plush give of skin and muscle, and he can’t help but hum in appreciation. 

“Don’t laugh -- ”

“Now why would I do that,” he says, as he repositions the hand around Prompto’s cock. Firm and gentle at the same time, the kind of pressure he knows that Prompto craves, and he knows this from too many sweetly stolen hours -- and he strokes, once, hot and heavy pressure that gets him a low sigh in return. “This is good -- you’re good, you know that?”

“S-so are you,” he hears Prompto say. “Good, Noct. I -- I wanna be good for you.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the exact same thing: being good for you. You didn’t have to be here.”

“Would have stood an equal chance of you kicking me out,” but there’s a chuckle in the words, half yearning.

“I would never,” and he believes it as he says it: as he steals one more kiss, as he catches the sweet surge of Prompto towards him -- 

And moves, mapping a path downwards with his teeth and his tongue and his free hand -- as much as he knows his own body, the places where his nerves seem to be all but exposed to a knowing touch -- as much as he knows that, he knows Prompto’s better, and that’s not really a surprise at all, is it? Not when he’d had the gift -- one hell of a gift -- of being right there and no more than an arm’s-length away when he’d found all those pleasure-spots. No more than a kiss away, and -- he’d kissed every spot he’d found, in those shivering hours of long slow exploration. 

As he moves, the flush of Prompto only seems to deepen. His mouth, plusher now, fallen open and gleaming with their kisses -- he’s a treasure-chest, he’s an overflowing richness, his nerves and his reactions laid bare to Noctis, and every sound out of him sends a bolt of need straight into Noctis. Makes him cramp up in his midsection, wanting and wanting and going out of his mind with just how much he wants -- 

The taste of mingled rain and need on fair flushed skin. He links freckles together in lines drawn with the tip of his tongue, even as Prompto shakes harder and harder still. Just a chaste kiss to the head of Prompto’s cock -- he would laugh at the groan that the gesture gets him, if he weren’t trying to nose his way down to Prompto’s inner thigh and then -- “Let me,” he growls.

“Noct please.”

More than enough permission, more than enough trust, and the lingering traces of shower and scrubbing on Prompto’s skin, that he draws in with a deep breath before kissing him there, before opening his mouth and applying pressure. Sucking with intent -- and Prompto’s half-strangled scream starts with something like his name and rapidly falls apart into incoherent sounds. 

The heave of Prompto’s body, fighting to push into his touch, fighting to pull away -- he swears he can feel the tension and the need crackling all along Prompto’s nerves because it’s boiling up in his, like he’s been wound up in cords of lightning, tighter and tighter with every thundering beat of his heart, of Prompto’s heart. Pulses in counterpoint, driving him on, and he releases Prompto with a soft obscene sound.

The sigh of relief that he hears immediately after makes him laugh. “What? You want me to stop?”

“Noct, I, you -- fuck -- ”

It shouldn’t make sense, and the words aren’t even a phrase to make sense of: but Noctis has heard him like this before and can’t get enough of him like this, and so he licks a line up to the crease of Prompto’s other hip instead, the prettily defined lines of his quadriceps and then he’s back in position -- he’d never actually let go of Prompto’s cock -- 

“Can I?” he asks.

“If you don’t I might kill you-oooooooooooh,” and the last word tails off into a gorgeous moan, that fills up Noctis.

He flattens his tongue against Prompto’s cock -- swallows around its girth and then down, further. Up so he can catch his breath, so he can relax his throat further -- he really doesn’t know how to describe how much he lives for his, the tug of war between his reflexes and the need that he has to feel all of Prompto, heavy in his mouth. To hear Prompto reduced to incoherent begging and pleading.

Better than rain, he thinks. Better than hydrangeas is the bitter-musk of Prompto, as he finally slides down the last inch and he swallows around Prompto -- who screams.

A sound like whip and spurs and lash, blade-need, and he hollows out his cheeks and now he’s out of breath, he’s choking so well, he wants this and he can forget everything else in this world -- his own need, too, blanked out almost completely, because Prompto is the only thing that exists.

Not his memories and not his nightmares and not his fears: Prompto, that’s it, that’s all he wants and that’s all he cares to know.

Yank on his hair and he’d laugh if he still had the breath for it -- he rises off Prompto’s cock, slowly, the better to keep making love to him like this, and once he’s free he wipes his mouth off, deliberately showy, and he revels in the way the thin-line rims of blue-violet iris sliver even further.

“Yeah?” he asks, and the word that comes out of him is no more than a broken rasp and it’s good. It’s good. It’s what he wants.

“I gotta fuck you,” he hears Prompto say: and he thought he was already on the brink of falling to pieces and now he’s digging his own nails into his thigh, and he’s shaking so hard he can’t even breathe any more.

The demand of Prompto, the naked command of him -- Noctis can’t get enough of it, can’t move fast enough to follow -- Prompto’s all over him now, somehow having found the strength to overwhelm him, turn him over, and Noctis hisses out a long low breath and feels his pulse go haywire, as he’s steadied onto his hands and knees.

“Noctis, Noctis,” his name like a prayer, the way he hears it fall like a groan from Prompto’s lips -- he shivers all over when Prompto’s hand catches him by the hip -- 

“Gonna, Prompto hurry,” he keens.

“I know, I know, I -- let me in -- ”

He does, he yields, to the press of Prompto’s fingers into him -- one is too much, but then there’s two and three and he’s cursing, he’s rocking mindlessly onto those fingers, he can barely hear the awed swearing coming from behind him -- 

Prompto pulls out, suddenly: and before Noctis can think to protest, there’s something bigger than fingers fitting into him and he goes limp and helpless and all he wants, all he knows, is Prompto sinking into him, completely.

“Good?”

Prompto. Checking in.

He can’t even remember closing his eyes and sobbing: now he has to make himself say it. Beg for it.

“Move -- ”

It’s a sweet kind of pain, when Prompto pulls out nearly all the way.

And it’s overwhelming fire down every last inch of his own skin when Prompto shoves back in -- Noctis closes his eyes and opens his mouth and hears only the pound of his heartbeat and the low whine of Prompto’s breath, like he’s fighting his need, too.

He has to keep fighting to stay in the moment, to stay in this steady push and pull of their bodies, nothing but their raw nerves flayed open by need, and every moment he’s speared on the keener and keener edges and there’s only so much he can take -- 

“With me, come on,” he hears, distantly. Only a splinter-shard of warning in that voice, in those trembling words -- it’s all he needs, it’s all that he wants to push him over the edge and he doesn’t even need to touch himself -- he’s still grinding back into Prompto even as he comes, even as he falls.

He can only just feel how Prompto comes, too: the echoes of that savage soft cry, the heat that fills him, the kiss that somehow skims the edges of his scar and lands right between his shoulder blades.

Weight of them together that bears him down to the sheets, shaking even as he tries to stay right next to Prompto -- never mind the overheated skin, never mind the wet spot in the sheets -- he manages to move a hand, manages to catch Prompto’s wrist.

He’s kissing -- ink in freckled skin and he smiles and whispers “Gods I love you.”

Soft shaky laugh that runs through him. “Love you too. And you’re better than gods to me.”

He wishes he’d thought of it first, is the only thing that can run through his head now.

And: “Don’t go?”

“Staying.”

He lets out a small groan when they pry themselves apart, and the only thing that can make him better is to hold on to Prompto, so that’s what he does.

Prompto, who clutches at him and whispers strange words, like the fading sigh of the rain, like the fading scent of hydrangea flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- or, hey, if Tumblr becomes too rotten and we can't talk there any more, there's always Twitter, where I am @ninemoons42.


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